


We Rise Like Smoke

by orphan_account



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Black Canary journey, Character journey, Friendship/Love, Gen, Team Arrow, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Laurel is kidnapped, the people left behind turn Starling City upside down trying to find her. But after 8 months coming up empty, a confrontation forces Oliver to realize that finding her isn't likely and he needs to start letting go. But a note from the Canary changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

**I.**

Eight months ago Laurel was kidnapped.

Four dark-clad people came and took her from her apartment in the late winter night. They left no traces, notes, or reason—one day she was simply there, the next, gone.

They searched the city’s every nook and cranny after her. Felicity went over security cameras, satellite images stored in CIA and NSC's data banks, domestic and international airplane manifestos, every possible way she could have left Starling City. Diggle had Lyla call in a favor through ARGUS; Detective Lance reached out to his contacts in Central City and Gotham. Oliver tried reaching out to Sara, but was met with silence before she told him they were doing what they could. He’d been frustrated at first, then angry, that she wouldn’t help him find her sister, but he knew better than most the futility of being angry at a ghost.

Laurel was gone.

That didn’t mean Oliver stopped searching. Felicity and Diggle supported him, helped as much as they could, but after months coming up empty even their resolution was wavering. Truth was, they’d been waiting for Oliver to crash for weeks, but he didn’t seem to let up.

So he spent months obsessed with finding Laurel, rescuing her—until, six months after she was kidnapped, they received a message.

| _She’s safe_. |

That was all the note said. No sender, no signature. Just a note attached to her living room wall.

Some people still visited Laurel’s sealed-off apartment from time to time. Her father walked through the apartment in search for clues he might have missed, unable to get over the impact of how the place looked frozen in time. The added dust was the only sign time still reached in there. Oliver visited infrequently, telling himself that, this once, he might find that one thing he didn’t on previous visits, the one thing that eluded everyone and would lead them to finding her.

They scanned the actual note for traces of, well, anything. Felicity clandestinely sent a sample to the no-longer comatose Barry Allen in Central City, but his results returned the same way Starling City’s Forensic Science Department did: empty. No traces, no DNA. The ink came from a pen produced in Starling City, the paper too. Another dead end.

It didn’t surprise anyone that Oliver didn’t accept that.

He spent the following weeks pushing himself harder than before, to the point where Diggle not-so-jokingly threatened putting something in his food that would ease him into a twenty-hour sleep. Oliver went patrolling without telling either Diggle or Felicity, except it wasn’t so much patrolling as finding every low life of the city and demanding any piece of information they might have on Laurel's whereabouts. When that didn’t work out, Oliver sought out trouble. He scanned the city after it. When he couldn’t find big henchmen waiting on their next big break, he tracked down and launched himself at small petty thieves.

No matter how many times Felicity told him he was a hero, he considered himself a failure as long as he couldn’t find Laurel. His way of thinking made all his fights a little angrier, his fuse increasingly shorter. It escalated to the point where he nearly beat a low-grade street-rat to death, after which Diggle and Felicity gave him a hard talking to down in the Foundry.

Oliver didn’t say much. Mostly he kept his eyes between whoever was talking and the floor, but when he lifted them they were dark and stormy like the evening outside.

Felicity stood in front of the computers. “… we understand that not finding Laurel makes you feel like nothing you ever do is good enough, but damn, Oliver, enough is enough. We’ve done what we can. _You_ are doing what you can.”

“It’s not enough!”

He pushed off the table, stalking up to Felicity, two blue storms meeting. They stared each other down.

“Something the two of you need to understand is that, until we find her, nothing I do will ever be enough.”

“I’ve got a news-flash for you, Oliver. We are doing what we can. But you don’t get to nearly beat people to death just because you’re frustrated. Do you think Dig and I feel any better?” She swept her hand Diggle’s way. He was standing in front of the glass case with arrows, arms folded. “We feel bad, too, and we’re not the only ones. You need to wake up."

“Felicity, I’m not Barry. This is not something I can just wake up from.”

Felicity’s eyes glistened dangerously, like the tip of a spear exposed to sunlight. They two of them kept staring at each other unrelentingly, until, finally, Felicity’s lips parted.

“I need some air.”

Oliver watched her go, standing very still, breathing in, breathing out. Finally he moved, violently sending a handful of arrows off the table and clanging against the floor. Diggle stood still, watching him.

“She’s not wrong, you know.”

Oliver stormed around facing him.

Diggle sounded calm. “And I’m not talking about the low blow you just pulled on her, either.”

The two men locked eyes, but Diggle didn’t challenge Oliver’s. He only held the gaze steadily, remaining the voice of reason.

“Oliver, it’s been eight months. Believe me—if a trip around the world meant we had a chance of finding Laurel, I’d have taken off yesterday. But part of any fight is knowing when to pull back.”

Oliver wiped a gloved hand over his mouth. “I can’t give up, Diggle. I won’t.”

“No one’s asking you to give up, Oliver. But there comes a point in every man’s life where he’s faced with the choice to keep moving or burn out on the spot. Better make sure the one you make is the right one.”

Diggle grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, leaving the Foundry after a last firm look Oliver’s way. Oliver remained standing for a long time, just breathing and waiting for the world to fall back into place around him.

 

* * *

 

Diggle nearly walked straight into Felicity at the back of Verdant. She was pacing the alley, back and forth, and when Diggle opened the door right in front of her, she jumped.

“Geez,” she let out.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, Felicity.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s just…” She sighed. That was the comfort of having people in your life you shared secrets with. You didn’t have to explain.

Diggle pushed his hands down his pockets. “His head isn’t where it should be right now.”

Felicity snorted. “Was it ever?

The side of John’s mouth turned up, and Felicity wondered, looking at him, how some people managed to keep their feet on steady ground throughout everything that happened to them. No matter what happened, whatever they were exposed to, they kept standing. Kept moving forward. And since when did her own outlook get so sullied?

“I know things have been hard these past couple months…” He began.

Felicity raised her eyebrows. “That’s, like, the understatement of the year.”

“I’m no poet, Felicity.” It reminded him of something. “How is Detective Lance?”

“Alive. Which, considering the circumstances, is a pretty miraculous thing.” Felicity breathed in, needing the strength, but the breath came in ragged. In the distance she heard the sound of police cars, but couldn’t bring herself to consider it right now. “I brought him some food on Monday. At least his apartment doesn’t reek of alcohol any longer.” Lines appeared across her nose. “I only saw three bottles inside the apartment. I think. Kind of hard to see that much from the hallway.”

“He’s trying, Felicity. The man feels like he’s lost both his daughters.”

“That’s pretty much what he said, too.”

Felicity looked at Diggle, the image of steadiness. She walked over and grabbed both his hands. He looked down at her and nodded, their silent _thank you_ and _welcome_ going unspoken. Felicity didn’t want to think about how she’d handle this without him. She probably wouldn’t even be here.

She looked at the jacket in his hands. “You going home?”

“Yeah. Lyla’s waiting on me.”

“Lucky you. I got a date night with a basket full of overdue washing.”

“Can’t win ‘em all the time,” he said, pulling the jacket on. “Never know, an evening home might do you some good, Felicity. I’ll see you later.”

She gently smiled. “See you later, John.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity Smoak had many roles to fit into, and tonight she was playing the role of a homebody.

It was a part she knew well. She’d played it for years, during MIT and the years after, both before and after getting her position at QC’s IT department. However, since accepting to help a certain green vigilante’s mission to make Starling City a better place, the amount of evenings she spent at home became fewer and fewer.

Not that she minded. She’d made her choice some time after “ _I’m not going to hurt you, Felicity_ ,” but before “ _Does that mean you’re in?_ ” and now lived with the consequence of that choice. An evening at home was actually welcome, along the lines of what John told her before he left the Foundry earlier. He was taking Lyla to Table Salt, an amazing dinner likely followed by slow-dancing to a live piano and an evening spent together in each other’s warm company.

And Felicity… she was catching up on her laundry and eating take-out. _Glamorous, Smoaky_.

She had just put her second batch of clothes in the washing machine when she heard _noise_ in her living room. She froze on the spot, lips parting in an ‘o’ shape as she stood very still in the bathroom. A window closed out in in the living room, but no sound followed. No footsteps. Her thoughts went to her bag out in the hallway, where she kept a can of mace, one in every bag. She waited, listening after more sounds, but after everything was quiet for several long seconds she tip-toed her way out into the hallway, pulling the mace from the leather bag resting on the chair next to her coats. Taking a deep breath, Felicity walked down the hallway to her kitchen.

“Whoever’s there, I’d like you to know I’ve got a can of mace and I’m not afraid to use it.”

She quickly spun around her kitchen corner, aiming the mace in front of her. She froze on the spot when she saw the figure standing there.

“Oliver?”

He didn’t turn to look at her. He was standing in front of the cupboard, in his Arrow suit, hood pulled back, mask around his neck, holding a bottle of red wine that was more familiar to her than the rest.

“You kept this?” he asked her.

Felicity lowered the mace, putting the can down next to the stove. “Yeah. I thought of drinking the whole thing when you left, but didn’t.”

He glanced her way, the bottle of 1982 Lafite Rothschild still in hand. “Saving it for a special occasion?”

She folded her arms, taking two steps to him. “Not really. It was more… I told myself if I drank it, it would be the same as accepting you never coming back. And I couldn’t do that.”

Oliver nodded. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

He put the bottle back in the wine stand on her cupboard. He turned slowly, looking around the kitchen, noticing the small details he hadn’t noticed before: the red lining the white borders of the wall, how the chrome aligning the stove was the exact same color as the fridge. On the cupboard stood a toaster the same shade as the lipstick she often wore to work.

Felicity returned the can of mace to her bag in the hallway. Behind her, she watched Oliver walk out from her kitchen into her living room. He was in his full Arrow suit, and yet, the Arrow standing in her living room didn’t look… _off._ Maybe she was so used to seeing him in the suit that she didn’t think twice about it; maybe it was something else.

She slowly made her way over to the space between her kitchen and living room, folding her arms against her chest. She leaned against the wall, standing there in her striped Calvin Klein pajama bottoms and grey MIT sweatshirt, waiting. The air smelled of laundry and chinese food.

Oliver’s hands clasped and unclasped where he stood, in the middle of the room, next to her couch and coffee table.

“You were right,” he said, in a low steady voice. “In the Foundry, earlier tonight… I’m sorry.”

Felicity remained leaning against the wall. “It took you this long to realize that?”

He looked at her, jawline stern but his eyes softer. “No. Not really. I’ve just never been good at knowing when to give up.”

“Oliver, it’s…” Felicity left the wall, walking to him. “It’s not about giving up. But sooner or later, if you want to keep moving forward you have to let go.”

His eyes at her were wounded. It was rather something, she thought, that the city’s hero was standing here, in a former IT-Expert-turned-Executive-Assistant-extraordinaire’s living room, looking like he just discovered how the world lost its heart.

She found his gloved hand. “We all know you would have moved heaven and earth to have it be… _not_ this way. But now, it is. And we’ve all done what we can. Some times we _do_ lose, Oliver. Don’t lose yourself in the process, too.”

He looked at her like she was a lifeline. She pressed her hand against his gloved one, kept pressing until she felt him press back. Finally, she slowly pulled back, motioning to her coffee table and the food boxes resting atop.

“It’s not exactly Table Salt, but if you want to share…”

A corner of Oliver’s lips turned up. “Thanks, but I should be getting back out there.”

He began moving for the corner window, but paused when he heard her voice.

“Oliver?”

He paused, looking at Felicity’s pressed lips. “Yeah?”

“Do you really have to patrol tonight? I know you’re a big guy and you can take of yourself pretty well and all…” Pressing a hand to her forehead, Felicity winced. “I so didn’t mean it like that.”

She’d be damned if she thought Oliver didn’t smile, Arrow get-up and everything. Her arms folded against her chest without her volition.

“I just don’t like the idea of you patrolling when I’m not with you,” she said, feeling the slow burn of admission.

“Afraid I’m going to kill street rats?”

“No.” She met his eyes dead on. “Afraid you’re going to get yourself killed.”

Felicity’s chest heaved. She bit her lower lip, remained still, running a hundred curses through her mind. She knew he hated that word, fear, both of them did; they would rather act like it was just another fact of life. But she knew Oliver, knew he was capable of feeling fear whether or not he liked to admit it. His every act the last months came from a place of fear within him.

She felt fear, too. Every night he went out in his Arrow suit, every night Dig joined him. That was her burden, in all of this. She didn’t have an island or Afghanistan, but she had all those nights being their virtual guardian angel, knowing she might always be too late, not enough. That was her fear. Not being enough.

Felicity found his unhooded eyes. “Your anger never scares me, Oliver. You not caring about your own life – that scares me.”

“Felicity…” He said her word like a secret. “I’ll go home.”

“Really?” Felicity’s eyebrows pushed together. “It’s just, you never really agree when Dig and I tell you to be careful. Or take care of yourself. And I’m never sure if it’s part of your whole Arrow persona, or this macho thing you got going on—”

“ _Felicity._ I’m going home. I’ll be fine.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“You’ll close up?”

“Usually do.”

He put the mask on, but looked at her before pulling the hood up to cover his face. “Good night, Felicity.”

“Night, Oliver. Stay safe.”

She watched him disappear out her window, before she moved over and closed it after him. She tried seeing him through the city-lit darkness, yellow, red and white lights, but his figure had blended into the deep, dark night. She pulled her curtains before returning to her coffee table with her cold chinese food and luke-warm beer.

So much for glamorous.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there. So, I've barely written fanfiction since 2005, but over the last months I've enjoyed so many talented writers' Arrow fics that it inspired me to write my own. I wrote this story because, I thought, why the hell not? I'm absolutely terrified of posting any writing online, so I'm counting this as some much needed therapy experience when it comes to that.
> 
> A special thank you goes out to the Olicity-community on Tumblr. You all know who you are.
> 
>  **The next chapter** is going to pick up a few weeks later. Oliver’s running low and Felicity intervenes, and the next morning Team Arrow receives a message from the Canary asking to meet Oliver--a message that’s going to change everything.
> 
> Also, because this story was written before 2x12: Tremors, Roy isn't included in Team Arrow.
> 
> Please review, if you’d like. It helps me keep writing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks later, Oliver’s running low and Felicity intervenes. The next morning Team Arrow receives a message from the Canary--a message that’s going to change everything.

 

* * *

 

**II.**

 

The weeks continued in the same pattern.

They fought the bad guys, while continuing what came to increasingly feel like a hopeless search for Laurel. But Oliver kept pushing, mostly himself, to lengths of sleepless nights scouring the city, and Felicity and Diggle tried to be there for him, but it was hard for them to witness the physical transformation of the realization in Oliver that he might never find Laurel.

He stopped being so angry, which was almost worse. He got increasingly more tired until his own exertion finally seemed to catch up with him.

One late evening Oliver returned to the Foundry, stumbling as he put his Arrow gear back in the glass case. Felicity couldn’t take it anymore.

“That’s it,” she said decisively. “I’m taking you home.”

Oliver looked around the Foundry, only just occurring to him he couldn’t see Diggle anywhere.

“Where’s Dig?” he asked.

“I sent him home when you told me you were coming back. Dig needed the rest—much like you do now, mister.”

“I’m okay,” Oliver said, sitting down on the steel table. He had to hold on to keep from swaying. “I’m always okay.”

“Yeah, except some times you’re not. You are not okay, Oliver. But, good news is, some of that can be fixed by sleep. That’s why I’ll be your personal driver tonight.”

Too tired to protest, he changed into his normal clothes, jeans and a thick grey sweater. He followed Felicity after she shut down the monitors, leaving the ones that should be kept on going. They headed up the stairs, and outside Felicity amusedly watched Oliver fitting himself into her compact car.

“Still can’t believe you got a Mini again,” he said, looking out the front window.

“Well, it’s not the size, it’s how you drive it. “ She frowned. “This isn’t helping at all.”

Oliver watched her start the car and pull them out the back alley with an amused expression. Outside, darkness had enveloped the city like a black aerial blanket, and some of the electrical lights hurt Oliver’s eyes. He closed them instead.

It wasn’t until he heard Felicity curse he opened them again. They were standing still by a red traffic light, a tumult of traffic ahead of them. Oliver heard voices outside the cars, angry voices, but it all sounded very far away.

“There’s road work on the highway,” Felicity said, pushing the pedal down and moving the car forward through the intersection after the lights changed. “That shouldn’t be a big deal. I know another route to your mansion, it should only take, like, twenty minutes more, which isn’t that much when you think about how long we could be stuck up there for, and—”

“Can I go home with you?”

Felicity’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tight she almost swerved the car.

He turned his neck against the back of the seat and she saw the fatigue in his eyes, how the reason he asked wasn’t like _that_.

“Mhmm. Sure.” She nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. “But you’re sleeping on the couch.”

Oliver said nothing, just leaned back and closed his eyes. His thoughts were mud, and his mind felt like fog. It wasn’t pain so much as indifference. Maybe getting some rest wouldn’t be so bad after all.

 

* * *

 

When they arrived outside Felicity’s apartment Oliver remained in the car until she parked it. He followed after she opened the door for him, felt her elbow link with his into the building, staying that way in the elevator. All the while Oliver felt like he was moving in a haze.

After she opened the apartment door and her couch came up in sight, he headed straight over. Without removing his shoes he sat down, got comfortable in a heartbeat, leaning his neck back against the rest.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when Felicity returned out into the living room, glass of water in hand. She put it down on the table in front of him. The air smelled like food.

“I figured you hadn’t eaten so I’m heating some left-overs,” she said. “Nothing fancy. Left over chinese, actually, the kind that makes you fart up a storm…” Felicity winced, closing the hallway closet. “Sorry.”

She nearly shoved the blanket and pillow into his hands. He thanked her, leaning down and kicking his shoes off. He realized he was probably tired than he thought, because he didn’t notice Felicity go into her kitchen and get food, only saw her coming back out holding a large white box with chop-sticks sticking out. She set it down on the table in front of him.

He reached out and pulled the chop-sticks out of the box, placing them neatly on the napkin on the side.

“I have a fork, if you’d rather,” she said, gesturing to the kitchen. She thought it odd; she’d seen him using chop-sticks at the office.

“S’not that. When they’re like that, pointing straight up? Means bad luck. It’s a bad omen.”

“Oh. Huh. The more you know.”

Oliver adjusted the blanket around his shoulders. “You’re not going to eat?”

“I grabbed a bite in the kitchen earlier. Thought I’d shower while you ate. Haven’t had time to do that with, you know, everything that’s been going on. Not to say I don’t shower - I do. But it’s, uh, been like two days. Which I’m sure you want to hear all about. _Not_. Shutting up commenced in 3… 2… 1...”

Oliver watched her pull the elastic from her ponytail, and, tired as he was, he found himself wondering how soft that hair would feel against his hands, running his fingers through it.

She must have noticed him watching her, because he saw the slight flush on her cheeks before she headed into the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

Felicity’s shower was quick, efficient. She was too tired for anything else right now. It had been a long day, following a long week, long _months_. She brushed her teeth and did a quick sleeping braid before heading out of bathroom in her pajama bottoms and a light tank top.

Oliver was fast asleep on the couch. The white box of food stood messily discarded with the chop-sticks lying next to it on the table, the glass of water, almost fully drunk. She considered replacing it, but figured if he was well-oriented enough to navigate his way in a jungle, then finding the kitchen in her small apartment shouldn’t be that hard.

Still, Felicity couldn’t resist pausing before she went into her bedroom. She leaned a hand on her bedroom doorway and looked at Oliver lying in her couch. He looked so peaceful, disarmed, not disturbed by all the things that haunted him during the day. She wondered if she’d ever see him look that unguarded when awake. If he’d ever find that peace.

At least this way he’d get some rest. And that was the purpose of this, she reminded herself. Having Oliver Queen in her apartment, drooling on her blanket, wasn’t. That was just a bonus.

 

* * *

 

Felicity was quietly trying to make breakfast the following morning when there was a knock on the door.

Not many people visited her, and the ones that did didn’t knock. She checked her phone on the cupboard, but no messages or missed calls. She walked on quiet feet out into the hallway, over to the door’s peephole. When she saw who it was on the other side something in her relaxed. She pulled the door open.

“Morning, Felicity.”

She was unsure if Diggle had ever seen her in pajama bottoms and a tank top before, but hey, you know, first time for everything and all that.

“Morning, John.” She smiled.

“Is he here?” He looked past Felicity’s shoulder, into the hallway behind her.

“On the couch.”

Felicity stepped out of the way, letting him in. Diggle seemed to understand that if Oliver was still on the couch, he was probably still sleeping, and lo and behold, Oliver Queen sleeping in jeans and a sweater underneath a blanket. It looked surprisingly comfortable in spite of everything.

“That smells good,” Diggle commented, looking into the kitchen. “What are you making?”

“Just something easy. French toast and smoothies. Well, technically I haven’t done the smoothies yet because the blender sounds like something dying on Star Trek, so.” Felicity glanced into the kitchen. “How would you like some French toast, John?”

He accepted. The two of them sat down on the tall kitchen chairs next to the long cupboard. They ate quickly and in silence, and when they were done John wiped his mouth on a supplied napkin.

“Thanks for the toast, Felicity. But that’s actually not why I came here for.”

“Aaw. I’m hurt you didn’t think my French toasts were good enough to warrant me a visit.”

He smiled, but it faded too fast for Felicity to make an effort to crack another joke. Whatever he’d come for obviously couldn’t wait longer.

“This came for Oliver this morning, to the mansion.” He handed a brown parcel over to her, thin like a letter, A4 size. She reached inside and pulled out a white, glossy paper with a black bird in the middle. Beneath the bird were a set of digits.

“Those look like coordinates,” Felicity said.

“They are. Coordinates to a building whose rooftop Oliver frequently visits as the Arrow.”

Felicity looked at John. Turning the sheet of paper in the kitchen light, she noticed a different shimmer on the top, above the bird.

“There’s a message here,” she said. “It’s numbers… looks like binary code.”

“Maybe if we took it to the Foundry, you could use one of your machines to decode it…”

“Decode what?”

Both Felicity and John turned to see Oliver standing in the kitchen doorway. His hair was bedshaped, all of him ruffled, softer, somehow, and he still had Felicity’s blanket wrapped around his broad shoulders.

“This came for you at the house this morning,” Diggle said, showing Oliver the message. “The coordinates are to the rooftop you frequent near the Arrow Line.”

Oliver looked at the glossy image. “You think it’s Sara?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. There’s binary code written with white ink on the paper. One of Felicity’s computers could probably decode it, which is why—”

Felicity snatched the paper from Oliver’s hand.

“I don’t need a machine to decode binary. Just, hand me a pen and paper and give me a couple of minutes.”

Oliver looked at Diggle, who remained still where he sat as Felicity went off to hunt down some pen and paper. He looked over where John sat.

“Is that… French toast?”

Diggle smiled. “All gone, too. I bet you could ask her to make you some after she’s done decoding.”

Felicity reappeared in the kitchen, scribbling as she walked. The two of them watched as she swiped a black marker over the white text, transmuting its color into long black rows of ones and zeros. She put the pen and paper next to it and quickly began writing a message in letters.

| _Tonight. 9PM. Come alone. Come as Oliver._ |

Felicity stopped writing. “It ends there. That’s all it says.”

“No signature? No S, or a C, not anything Sara might have added?”

Felicity shook her head. “We could take it with us and scan and analyze it, but something tells me it will turn up clean.”

“Scan it anyway.” Oliver nodded. “This evening it is.”

The serious mood was broken by the sound of Oliver’s stomach rumbling. John looked at Felicity, shaking his head and smiling. Felicity moved into action.

“We have plenty of time to prepare. Oliver, before you get out of here, sit down and shut up.” Felicity pulled out John’s vacant chair. “You’re not leaving my apartment before you’ve had something to eat.” She sniffed. “Maybe a tooth brush, too.”

John smirked. “Better obey.”

Most other occasions, Oliver would have fought it. Or, he would have left the apartment saying he’d pick something up along the way, but, as it was, even in the light of the Canary message he was still tired and French toast did sound good. The company wasn’t half bad either.

So, he sat down in Diggle’s empty chair, who told them he’d meet them at the Foundry in two hours. Felicity swept together French toast and made Oliver a violently pink smoothie from her screaming machine. He ate gratefully; it tasted like bread and cinnamon and berries, but most of all like _hope_.

When Felicity started clearing off and reached for his plate, he grabbed her wrist. She paused, looking at him where he sat, his eyes for once lower than hers.

“Thank you,” he said. “For all this.”

“Not a problem. I was going to eat too, so…”

He watched her, as she headed over with the plates, watched her loose uncombed hair that fell in soft curls across her back, against the tanktop he noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra under. And those sweatpants made him able to outline her underwear, lace, from the looks of it…

He dragged a hand down his face. He was too tired for that, too. He looked over at the glossy note still lying on the cupboard, reaching for it.

“This is good,” Felicity said, nodding to the note. “Now we finally have a trace.”

Oliver knew she was right. After months of endless searching, they finally had something to go on. He would meet with Sara that night and find out what really happened to Laurel eight months ago. It was all that mattered. It was the best thing he’d known in eight months.

Except when he looked over to where Felicity loaded dishes into the washing machine, so free, out of her make-up, looking comfortable and possibly softer than he’d ever seen her… Oliver was no longer so sure the best thing happening to him in eight months was Sara’s note.

Maybe it had been happening all along.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The next chapter** is about meetings and revelations. I might stick the last two chapters together into a longer one, even though there's a slight time difference between the two.
> 
> Please review, if you’d like. It helps me keep writing.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

**III.**

The Starling City night lit up around him like sea of electric lights. Standing on the ground beneath the building he'd been asked to come to, Oliver saw past the blinking dots of red, blue and yellow as he reconnoitered the surroundings.

Felicity’s voice came through on comms. “ _See anything?_ ”

“Lots of buildings.”

“ _Funny_.”

“I thought so.” Oliver’s lips curled up for a brief moment before flattening out again. “I’ll know more once I’m on the rooftop.”

“ _For the record, I still think it's a bad idea going, you know, without your bow. Not having Dig around is part your bad idea collection, too.”_

“I’m not completely helpless without the bow.”

In the Foundry, Felicity glanced back up over her shoulder at Diggle.

“I still like you.”

He adjusted his arms across his chest. “Glad somebody does.”

The first thing Oliver did when he reached the rooftop was scan the area. He found nothing out of the ordinary below, but this was anything but an ordinary situation. Anything might lurk in the shadows without his knowledge. Hidden contraptions, machines, booby traps… since the note from the Canary turned up clean, they still couldn’t be a hundred percent sure Sara had really sent it. And if someone else knew enough to know he knew about the Canary, well, arriving prepared was the least Oliver could do.

He noticed the small changes immediately. The way everything solid was as it was, before, but something was different, like an added scent to the wind.

“Someone’s been here,” he said.

“ _I’ll try scanning surveillance cameras in the area for recent activity_.”

He looked across the rooftop. He saw something gleam on the ground. Was that… oil? Bending his knees, Oliver touched the glistening trail with his hands, lifting his fingers to his nose. Definitely oil.

Just as he rose, the oily trail on the ground began lighting up. Fire ran along it, from the other end of the rooftop, past and around him, not a circle but in some kind of pattern he stood too close to see.

“It’s not coming at me, it’s…” He looked around, trying to piece the shape of the fire together. “It’s forming some kind of pattern.”

“Getting a satellite image, hold on.” Felicity typed away on the computer, bringing up a satellite image of the rooftop, zooming in so its edges filled her monitor. “It looks like - it’s some kind of bird.”

They both thought it, but Oliver was the one who said it.

“It’s a canary.”

A voice from behind cut through time like a memory.

“Hello, Ollie.”

 

* * *

 

Oliver stood completely still. The wind cut across the rooftop, biting at his cheeks, but he couldn’t really feel it, couldn’t really be touched by anything other than what was in front of him.

He had been expecting Sara. Not her.

“Laurel…?” He slowly turned, needing the visual affirmation.

And it was her. Laurel. The one he had been looking to find all this time. She approached him, her steps steady as they used to be, before, but now stronger somehow. Her arms folded against her chest as she looked at the fire canary burning around them.

“Sara taught me how to do that,” she said.

“Sara?”

Laurel nodded. “I know about her, Ollie. Not everything, but her time with the League, how she was trained… “

Oliver looked at Laurel, getting a better impression now that the first shock was over. She wore a black leather jacket, dark pants, something he wasn’t used to seeing her in. She’d always gone for long elegant coats, high heels, something polished and sophisticated… this new look made her look like someone he didn’t know. Her face was different. The body underneath that black clothing, too. She was still all slender long limbs, but they were rounded out by muscle. Considering how thin she’d been when he saw her last, that made him glad to see.

And it dawned on him.

“That’s where you’ve been the last eight months.”

Laurel’s arms unfolded. “I came here to tell you to stop looking for me. I’m not dead, Ollie. Far from it.”

He had so many questions. A torrent, a whole rushing flood of them. Beginning was always the hardest.

“How did you…”

“I persuaded them to let me come here so you’d stop looking for me.” She paused, before indicating to a rooftop across the other building. “As you might already have guessed, I’m under supervision.”

Oliver looked over at the building, seeing the black-clad person standing there, a shadow among darkness. He couldn’t see a weapon but that did not mean Laurel’s supervisor wasn’t armed and had back-up waiting to tear the building down if necessary.

“Tell your partners to not track them down,” Laurel warned. “I’m here by choice. And that’s really what this is all about.”

Laurel walked within the canary of fire, a slow but confident walk he remembered from her youth. But her every step was weighed evenly, in control. She stopped and turned to him by the canary’s burning wing.

“I’m only in the beginning of my training. Part of that training is saying goodbye to my old life. And I couldn’t do that when people kept it alive.”

Oliver read her resolute face. Her expression wasn’t cold and frantic, like he remembered her after her drug abuse was exposed to everyone, when she was fired and disbarred. This was a calm, confident look with the same imploring eyes. Whatever she was becoming was something he wasn’t part of.

He also understood something else.

"A month ago my partners were targeted,” he said. “One of their car's blew up and another’s elevator broke down with him in it. That was the League, wasn't it."

"I didn't find out until after. I swear, Ollie." Laurel took a step to him, but calmed herself before she reached him. He witnessed a control in her that hadn’t been there eight months ago. "That's why I'm here now. To tell you to stop searching. Stop looking for me. You’re not going to like what you find.”

Oliver nodded, but his neck felt stiff. It was a lot to process, but he thought he understood. He finally had his answer to where Laurel had been, who had taken her, or, thought he did, though the why was still missing. He wasn’t sure he would ever find that out. He wasn’t sure he deserved to know.

Part of him wanted to fight this. This was _Laurel_. He wanted to ask her, not as the persons they were to each other now, with the distance between them, but with the weight and meaning of their past experiences supporting him, Oliver wanted to ask Laurel to explain everything that went between the lines, everything that went unsaid.

But she was asking him to let her go.

“I get what you’re asking of me,” he said. “But I spent months looking for you, Laurel. I never gave up.”

“I know you didn’t, Ollie.” Her voice was softer for a moment. “That’s another reason I had to come here – you or your group, you got too close. A search almost had me located. When we saw the signal in our grid, that’s how I managed to persuade them how important it was for me to come here and tell you to stop looking.”

Oliver looked away briefly. He thought Felicity and Diggle had given up. He thought he’d searched alone, these last months…

Looking down at the rooftop, at the still burning fire surrounding them, Oliver swallowed before refocusing on Laurel. She saw the emotion in his eyes. He may have gotten over his blind spot for her, but part of him would always love Laurel. What to do with that love was now a choice he had to make.

“We all have to make choices," she said. "Some times… you have to change or die. I made my choice, just like you made yours.”

He looked to the ground before he slowly nodded. “Your dad will want to know you’re alive, Laurel.”

“I know. My next stop, actually.”

She faintly smiled and a glimmer of the Laurel he knew appeared. The Laurel he knew before the island, before he returned, before the drugs, depression and all the hopelessness. This was that girl, and the other. They were versions of the same. And right now, she was becoming another.

Laurel walked up closer to him, a soft expression. “You can’t save me, Ollie. You’re right. I was taken—but I chose to stay. They trained me. Showed me I’m capable of things I didn’t know I could do. This is my life now. This is the life I chose.”

Oliver tried breathing even breaths, but found it difficult. He wished he could find it hard to believe her, but he didn’t. He did believe her. He knew she was telling the truth—not because his blind spot kicked in, but because this was a Laurel he hadn’t known before, a Laurel that was intrinsically as strong as he was. She had let herself forget that, for years. But now it seemed she had found her way back.

“We’ll always be part of each other’s lives, Ollie. But you have your life and I have mine.”

Laurel reached up and kissed his cheek. When she leaned back she was smiling.

“Now. Go live it.”

She left him there, walking over to the rooftop’s edge. There she picked up a black line, thick as a cable, before she gave him one last smile and mouthed him a word, before saliently springing over the edge, holding onto the black line. He watched her disappear into the night, one moment there…

… the next, gone.

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, Oliver walked through the back entrance of Verdant leading down to the Foundry.

He traded air between his steps down the stairs, seeing Diggle seated in front of the computer monitors. Diggle looked back over his shoulder when he saw Oliver coming down.

"Look who finally decided to join us again."

Oliver looked around the Foundry. There wasn’t much that had changed during the week he was gone, if anything at all. His suit hung in the glass case, the green hood folded over. The green-feathered arrows were evenly distributed in his quiver, ready even in his absence. A sense of calm and order reached into him here; the only place he could let his guard down completely and be who he had become.

"This time I gave you notice,” he said, his voice light. “Told you I'd be gone a week."

"So you did."

Oliver looked around the Foundry more completely. He’d noticed it instantly, but one of the most crucial parts was missing.

"Where's Felicity?" he asked.

"I sent her home two hours ago. Thought she could use an evening off. Only reason I'm still here is because I'm waiting on Lyla to wrap up a meeting."

Oliver nodded. Without being asked, Diggle filled him in on how things had been during his week away from Starling City. Oliver already knew nothing too alarming had happened; if something requiring the Arrow had occurred, he'd asked them to contact him on a cell phone few people had the number to. He thought of it as going selectively AWOL.

When Diggle wrapped up telling him about a drug-dealer Felicity managed to set up a false meeting with, sending Detective Lance and his team in place of the potential buyer, Oliver jumped off the table he’d been sitting on.

Diggle looked after him. "Where are you going?"

Oliver stopped between the glass cases and table. He kept reversing as he answered, hands together in front of his chest.

"There's someone I need to see."

Diggle smirked. “Someone else has dibs on kicking your ass, you mean.”

Oliver waved his hand above his head as he turned, jogging up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

When he arrived outside her building, her window was already half open.

Oliver stood down on the evening-lit street, looking up at the third floor and the corner window he’d swept his presence through times before. Difference was, all those times he had been in his Arrow suit. Now he was standing on the sidewalk as Oliver Queen. He was here as the man Felicity knew: the one who was both the Arrow and Oliver Queen, at the same time.

The real him. The one with pieces undefined. And he couldn’t wait to figure out the rest.

Without his bow and arrows to help him reach her window, Oliver knocked on Felicity’s apartment door, three times. It took a moment before he heard footsteps on the other side, the pause within the door letting him know she looked through the peephole. The pause that followed dragged on for so long he thought she might not let him in. But in a great pull, the door swung open.

On the other side was Felicity, in the same striped sweatpants he’d seen her in previously, but this time with a fuchsia top that would have matched the shade of lipstick she wasn’t currently wearing. Her hair was loose in half curls, but her expression was anything but soft.

“If you’re looking for a welcome-back committee, I think you’re knocking on the wrong door.”

“Hey.” He tried smiling. “May I come in?”

He noticed her holding a wooden spatula. She looked at him a moment, eyebrows pulled together, before finally turning and walking back into her apartment. She left the door open, so he took that as his answer.

He entered the hallway, closing the door after him. The scent of food wafted to him, spicy, warm. Something with meat. Oliver walked down the hallway to her kitchen, nearly slamming into Felicity who briskly came out. She strode into her living room, swirled, arms folded against her chest.

“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice adamant but still so… Felicity.

“I came here because…” Oliver walked into the living room, wiping a hand down his mouth. “Because these last months have totally sucked.” He watched her eyebrows rise. “Because I’m tired. And I needed to…”

Felicity stopped him. "No. You don't get to come here just because you've had a crappy week. Or lousy months. I’m not some comfort blanket who happens to come in the form of a human, who, by the way, was cooking dinner.”

She strode past him, spatula in hand.

“You know where the window is,” she said. “Don't let the latch hit you on the way out."

He looked at the window, noticing the light cold breeze that came in through it. He sighed, looking at the floor, before opening his mouth to speak.

“Felicity, wait.”

It wasn’t a command, or he never would have reached through to her. Felicity paused, turning slowly, her face set with determination, but it was a different kind of determination, one that’s still open and willing to listen.

"I didn't come here for me,” he said earnestly. “I came here to thank you. I suppose there are many, many things I should be thanking you for, but…” He took two steps to her, hands in pockets. “A week ago Laurel told me how close you were to tracking her down. You continued the search even when I thought you’d given up.”

Felicity’s expression softened, bringing out the light in her blue eyes. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, his right reaching out and finding hers. He pressed, warm skin against warming hearts.

“I know this life isn’t easy, but you still chose it. To stick with me and Dig, help us make Starling City a better place.”

“You already thanked me for that.” She tried keeping her lips from softening to a smile, but failed. “The flowers, remember? My whole living room was full of them.”

“I know. But this is me, thanking you here and now. I still need you, Felicity. Maybe now more than ever.”

Felicity pressed her hand against his. She held on to his eyes gazing deeply into hers, then she nodded, slowly.

“Oliver, how much training did Laurel have?"

He didn’t see that coming. “A couple of months, nothing that..."

"Cause it sounds to me like somebody hit your head and I was wondering if it might’ve been her.”

Oliver smiled, one of those rare smiles he let himself _feel_ because no one was around to pretend for. He enjoyed how the smile turned into a chuckle, as he watched Felicity run out into the kitchen as a timer went off. He didn’t consider, but followed her.

“What are you cooking?” he asked, leaning in the door frame.

He had seen Felicity in many situations, including whipping up cinnamon-sprinkled toast and a smoothie, but Oliver didn’t think he’d ever seen her actually _cooking_ before.

“I’m making dinner. When I have the time, which isn’t often, by the way, I make big casseroles that last me a week in the fridge. Cooking food’s not usually the first thing that comes to mind when you develop a habit of coming home really late at night." Lines appeared across her noce. "Or, early mornings, I suppose.”

Part of Oliver felt guilty, knowing he was primarily the reason she pulled all those long nights, bleeding days into early mornings. But he also knew Felicity was the kind of girl who’d rather damn the world than have anyone feel sorry for her, so he said nothing.

Finally the inertia got to him. “Is there anything I can do?”

Felicity looked over at him a moment, considering.

"You can roll your sleeves up.” She noticed the look he gave her, so she added, “What I mean is, you could help me finish.” Felicity pressed her eyes shut. “Finish cooking the food.”

"I don't...”

"Know how to cook? Big surprise. That's why your friendly Executive Assistant Felicity Smoak can help you."

He raised an eyebrow. "I might've learnt a thing or two on the island..."

"Sure, but there will be no snake-crust-roasting-on-the-fire here."

Oliver watched light dance in her eyes, the open invitation hanging in the air. Unable to stop the smile from reaching his eyes, warming his chest, he walked over, rolling his sleeves up. He stood next to her front of the stove.

"Think you can stir that casserole, Mr. Queen?" She pointed at him with the spatula.

"I might, Ms. Smoak."

"Good. I usually make dishes that last several days, since being with you every night kind of makes it impossible to come out with anything worth swallowing." A pause. "Oh God."

Oliver amusedly watched as Felicity hastily headed over to the cupboard and pulled two candles from the drawer.

“I'm just going to go and…"

He nodded. "I'll be stirring."

He shook his head, smiling the way she so often made him smile, eyes first. He stood there in the kitchen, stirring the casserole Felicity was making for herself, tonight, for the two of them. He reveled in the normalcy of it all.

He wasn't okay, wouldn't be okay for some time. The world was still out there. But as he stood there, as Felicity came over and told him she’d put out plates and he could lay the table as she finished the casserole, as he did all this Oliver felt the warm undercurrent of old wounds torn at slowly beginning to heal.

He looked at the wine bottles she’d placed on the table in the living room, allowing him to choose. But he knew exactly the one he wanted.

As Felicity walked out into the living room, carrying the big casserole and setting it down on the table, Oliver uncorked the wine bottle.

“Hope this one’s alright,” he said.

She knew which one he’d chosen without looking. “Perfect.”

Felicity looked around to see what was missing. Oliver presented two wine glasses, filled to half with red wine each. She smiled sincerely, taking the glass and holding it in front of her.

“What should we toast to?” she asked, smiling like a small star. “Friends and partners?”

“I can drink to that,” Oliver agreed, looking into her eyes over the glass rim. “But how about… to old ends and new beginnings.”

“Sold.”

They dipped their glasses and drank. The wine tasted sweet and long, like a good dream.

“Good wine,” she said, pulling back.

“Yeah. Good… wine.”

Oliver’s eyes hadn’t left hers. He looked at Felicity, his eyes full of hope and hers shone back with the promise of the world.

The evening was far from over. There was food left to eat, wine to be drunk. Hearts left saving.

Oliver went over and closed the window latch. This time he stayed.

 

**FIN.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read this story.
> 
> I wrote it because I wanted to explore an option of letting Laurel become Black Canary. I should say that I wrote the story before 2x12: Tremors, which is why Roy isn't part of Team Arrow and probably the explanation for other continuity errors you might find that no longer make sense in the light of the last episode aired when this is posted, i.e. 2x14: Heir to the Demon.
> 
> I also hope people enjoyed the shameless nod to Stephen's PCA interview.
> 
> Thank you so much for commenting!


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